Complicated Creatures
by Katlyn
Summary: When Mycroft was fifteen, he accidentally got his girlfriend pregnant. Sherlock isn't his little brother, he's his son, but Sherlock doesn't know that. Rated for themes of underage pregnancy.
1. Chapter 1

"You can't tell me what to do."

Mycroft felt like pushing the obstinate child down the stairs, but settled for holding himself back and trying to exude calm instead.

Pale grey eyes narrowed. "You're angry. You want to tell me off. Is that Mummy's breathing trick?"

At seven, Sherlock already saw more than most adults, and it still unnerved Mycroft, no matter that he'd been listening to Sherlock's observations since the boy had learned to talk.

"You are correct. I am angry with you. Sherlock, I want you to try harder with the other children at school." Reason seemed to work best on Sherlock, and Mycroft wasn't above abusing anything that would get him to listen. "There will come a time when you need to co-operate with others in order to get what you want. If you continue to isolate yourself, you will find yourself unable to achieve what you set out to do. You will be very lonely in the end."

He could feel a headache starting, and resisted the urge to close his eyes and show weakness. How could Sherlock not see that he only wanted the best for him? Wanted him to do well in the world? He felt the familiar urge to just itell/i Sherlock the truth rise up inside him, but swallowed it whole.

The young boy's jaw set in a familiar scowl, eyebrows drawing together and dark curls that he refused to have cut falling over his forehead. All in all, it was a perfect a picture of obstinacy that one would ever hope to see.

"They're all stupid, they don't know anything, I'll never need them. I don't care if I _am_ lonely. At least I've got Mummy, she doesn't make me do anything I don't want to."

Mycroft watched silently as Sherlock played his ace, the child looked triumphant as he threw himself backwards onto an armchair that sat in the corner of the study.

"Mummy will agree with me, but I see there's no convincing you." Mycroft turned on his heel and began to walk out of the room, "I'll be leaving for University again tomorrow, will you at least promise to think about what I've said?"

He watched as Sherlock frowned. "But you've only just got here."

"I've been here a month, Sherlock, Trinity term starts back next week, and I'd prefer to be prepared."

The little boy, for little he still was, despite the lanky limbs that he must have inherited from his mother, pulled his knees to his chest and scowled at Mycroft. "University's boring, you should stay here with me."

Mycroft leaped on this chance to make an impression on him. "I can't stay here forever, Sherlock, and Mummy won't be here forever either. You really ought to try and get some of the children in your year better, think of it as training them up", his eyes crinkled with a smile, "They might be more interesting when they can keep up with you."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, recognising the tactic, "Maybe", was his only concession, but Mycroft was proud of it.

* * *

Eight years earlier

Carol Harper was fifteen and very upset, if the tear-tracks were anything to go by.

"Are you sure?"

She shook her head, and sniffled again, "No, I might be wrong."

"But you don't think so?"

"Uh-uh, my period's late and all."

He blushed to hear her mention it, but rallied, trying to look stern. "Alright, well, um, we should find out, go see a Doctor or something. Did you talk to your Mum?"

Carol bit her lip and shook her head quickly, "No, I can't tell her, she'll get so mad. Please let's not tell her before we know for sure."

Mycroft felt like crying. He just wanted a grown-up to come in and take over, but that wasn't an option right now. "Okay, we'll go to the doctor's first, and then see."

She nodded in relief, "Sounds good."

They'd ended up catching the bus to a bigger town so that no-one would recognise either of them, and Mycroft watched the scenery pass by with a horrible dread sitting like concrete in the bottom of his tummy. He wanted to talk to Carol, wanted to pretend that everything was normal, but every time he turned around, the words turned to ash in his mouth.

Carol sat beside him the whole way like a statue, all long and slender limbs and dark brown curls.

The result had been positive. He'd known it from the very moment he'd walked into the surgery and made and appointment to see the Doctor. Carol had gone in by herself, and Mycroft couldn't help but be relieved, although that had vanished as soon as she'd stepped out again. Once out of the office and down a side street where there were fewer people to gawk, her face had crumpled, and she was in his arms, crying on his shoulder.

He had no experience with crying girls, and was on the verge of panicking himself. "It's alright, it'll be alright." He hated himself for relying on such platitudes, but he could think of nothing else to say.

The bus ride home had been bad, and telling their parents, even worse. Carol's father was furious, and seemed ready to blame Mycroft for all the sins of the world, and Mummy had been so disappointed. Looking back, that disappointment had been the worst part.

"And you'll be paying all the costs." Robert Harper was saying, "I don't want my girl's life tainted by this at all. You'll pay for the doctors, and for making sure no-one finds out, and then you'll take the baby and give it to someone who cares."

Mycroft couldn't do anything except sit there, mutely. He felt like a rag doll, with no words of his own. He never wanted to feel like this again.

Mummy cut through the tirade. "There will be no need for that, I will adopt the child. I was never able to have another one after Mycroft, and I think it's best for the baby if it stays with relatives."

Robert flung a hand dismissively. "I don't care what you do with the brat, as long as it's out of our lives."

Carol shrunk down even further into her mother's arms, sobbing. It was difficult to tell if she was pleased or upset with this declaration. Mycroft guessed that it was a bit of both.

* * *

Seven months later, the population of the world increased by one. Carol and her family left Cirencester for good, ending up somewhere in Birmingham, and Mycroft was left with a new brother. It didn't feel like it belonged to him, not when Mummy was so pleased with it, and never left the boy out of her sight, she'd named him and everything, left nothing for Mycroft to do.

Not that he'd expected to play any sort of major role in Sherlock's life. Mum and Dad had sat him down very early on and told him how it would be. He was only a teenager, he had years of schooling left, and a whole life ahead of him and no way of supporting a child, even if he had wanted to.

It made sense, he knew it did, but that didn't stop him from wanting something more.


	2. Chapter 2

Notes: I ought to have done this in the first chapter, and forgot. This is an AU. In canon, Mycroft is seven years older than Sherlock, not fifteen, I'm taking artistic liberties in order to explore the what-if's of this particular relationship. The inspiration behind it actually comes from my extended family, and I've always been fascinated by the idea. This fic will be a non-linear collection of scenes, and I'll probably be updating one scene at a time so that it isn't too long between updates.

Much love to all reviewers, thanks for reading :)

When Sherlock was three, Mycroft was eighteen. He'd finished his A-levels, and was soon heading to University. He was headed for Magdalen College, where Father (it wasn't Daddy any longer, a lad of eighteen had his dignity after all) had graduated, and everyone was very proud of him. They'd made a point of saying so at the celebratory dinner last night; all of his Uncles and Aunts, even Grand-mère had come from France for the occasion.

He had done his duty, he felt, and spoken to every guest, and received their congratulations with good cheer and modesty. They'd all moved on from the meal and were standing around in groups of three or four, catching up on the minutiae of each others' lives. It wasn't very often that the extended Holmes and Vernet families got to meet, they most of them led rather full lives, and they took the opportunity to compare tales and travels with gusto.

Mycroft had gone to stand with Mummy and Aunt Dahlia, when an apologetic nursemaid came in to interrupt. Mummy took her immediately aside, leaving Mycroft to accept yet more affirmations that he would succeed as well as his father had done and that she'd never doubted he'd do well. He kept one ear on the conversation taking place behind him as he nodded and thanked her.

"I'm sorry, Ma'am, he just won't settle, and he's likely to cause himself harm if he keeps on this way."

Mummy sighed in frustration, "You've tried everything?"

Mycroft assumed a nod took place in the silence, for Mummy kept talking, "Well, I'll come up in five minutes or so, just… oh, I don't know. Hold the fort until I get there."

She came back to the conversation, a smile over the annoyance he could see in the set of her jaw, "I'm terribly sorry, Dahlia, I have to go check on my youngest, he's having trouble sleeping, they say."

Dahlia made an apologetic noise in reply before Mycroft cut in, "I'll go, Mummy, you stay here and enjoy your evening, I'll get Sherlock to sleep."

Mrs Holmes gave him an appraising look, and he could see the desire in her eyes to keep the two apart, she didn't want Mycroft getting any ideas about his relationship with the little boy. In the end, her desire to stay at the party won through, helped along by Dahlia's raptures about what a lovely boy he was to help his mother out so, and wouldn't it be delightful if one of her young boys turned out so helpful instead of acting like the ragamuffins they were.

"Thank you Mycroft, that is very kind of you, but do make sure you don't stay up there all night, won't you?"

He promised, and headed up to the nursery where a small, dark haired terror reigned supreme, putting the fear of god into anyone who came near him.

Mycroft watched from the door as Kelly, the boy's nurse, tried to hold him in her arms. Sherlock wriggled and yelled with all his might, and she gave up the effort as futile, putting him back in the cot, attempting to lie him on his back.

"Shh shh shh," she tried to lull him, "Mummy will be here soon, and you can tell her all about it."

Mycroft hid a grin as he stepped into the room, "Mummy can't come up, but I'll do my best to help."

Kelly sighed with relief, "Mr Holmes, I'm so sorry, I just can't get him to do anything tonight, I think he knows something's happening downstairs, and he just won't stop fussing."

Sherlock spotted Mycroft and clambered to his feet, pushing his arms out over the top of the railings as far as they could reach, begging without words to be held by his brother. The screams and yells had turned to sobs now, and his little red face was shining with tears. "Mycrof'" he called out when he didn't immediately come to his side. "Don't wan' bed."

With two strides, he was across the room and by Sherlock's side, plucking him out of the cot and wrapping him in his arms. Sherlock's arms in turn clung tightly as he buried his face into Mycroft's neck. Mycroft could feel the wet tears slide down the collar of his shirt, but couldn't bring himself to care as he felt the small body hiccup with the stress of trying to breathe.

"Shush, there we are."

They stood like that for several minutes. Kelly had tidied up the thrown toys and had remade the bed, and then left the room inconspicuously, ready to come back when called, but taking the opportunity to get some much needed respite while she could.

"Can I put you down now?" Mycroft asked, once Sherlock's breathing had evened out, but he only received a tightening of the arms around his neck in response. He sighed a little and instead made his way to the armchair that sat in a corner of the room, "Alright, I won't put you down, but I'm going to sit down, and you can stay on my lap."

It took half an hour for Sherlock to fall asleep, and it was another hour after that before Mycroft put him down in the cot without disturbing the boy, and got a wet washcloth to wipe the little face of tears.

He didn't much feel like going back down to the party, but he did it anyway. They'd come on his account after all, and it would be rude to not say goodbye at the very least.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter three: Twelve and Twenty-seven

Warning for implications of drug use.

Chapter notes: A lot of this is taken from my own hospital experience when I was a teenager. I broke my leg and had to have three rounds of surgery to fix the damage, and morphine seemed like the best thing in the world. I was quite upset when they started to decrease my doses, nothing else seemed to work as well. This quick dependency scared me, and I've never tried illegal drugs because of this, but I can imagine someone like Sherlock wanting to explore the effects.

* * *

.

Twelve year old Sherlock lay in the hospital bed, sneering and growling at anyone who came near him. The enforced bed rest was incomprehensibly painful to a boy who was used to doing at least fifty things at once. Mycroft sat by the side of the bed, looking wan as Mummy ordered the doctors around outside the door. It was only a broken limb, (iOnly/i, Mycroft scoffed), but it had been a bad break that would apparently take two rounds of surgery to correct.

The news had been a painful reminder to Mycroft of how much he cared. Mummy didn't give him a lot of news about Sherlock, and trying to work his way up the ladder in the Home Office meant he didn't have a lot of time to think about home. He had left university with a first-class degree (he'd been one of ten scholars accepted to read philosophy, politics and economics),that surprised no-one, and earned a graduate position with the government almost as soon as he had stepped out of Magdalen's doors.

On paper, it was a perfect start.

Sitting next to Sherlock's hospital bed, though, he felt like it was all worth nothing. What would his life have been like had he been Sherlock's acknowledged father? Would he still be in the same position?

But then, how could he cope with a child like Sherlock? He didn't imagine it could be that easy.

.

* * *

.

The surgery had gone well, Mycroft was told, they had successfully reduced the swelling, and although he'd have scars, they would fade over time. He stood watch next to Mummy as the anaesthetist tried to put an oxygen mask over Sherlock's face.

"I don't want it, I need a drink" his head twisted from side to side, "No, NO."

Mummy pulled the doctor aside, "Can't we give him some water? He will continue to refuse otherwise."

The doctor pursed his lips, "You can put a damp cloth to his lips, but he'll be nauseous for a while, and any water he drinks is likely to come right back up."

Mycroft followed the instructions and dampened a washcloth that he gave to Mummy who sat by Sherlock's bed. "This will help, darling" she said to him, smoothing back the curls from his forehead, "And then you must put the oxygen mask on, just until we're back in your room."

It was a sign of how disorientated Sherlock felt that he agreed to her proposal, only commenting on how he wasn't wearing any underwear.

.

* * *

.

Sherlock railed against the confines of the bed. He hated everything about hospital, the white walls hurt his eyes, and the television that Mummy paid for was rubbish. Even the nurses were insufferable, they kept trying to treat him like a baby and cheer him up. That had stopped though, after he'd bitten the second nurse and made the third one cry by telling everyone that her marriage was failing. It wasn't his fault the evidence was written all over her, no matter what the matron said.

He ignored Mycroft, who hadn't left his side the whole hour he'd been there. Sitting there like a great big mournful bird or something, just watching him.

"Go away."

Mycroft frowned, a small wrinkle between his brows, "Why?"

Sherlock ignored the question.

"Sherlock?"

The boy scowled, "I can't think when you're staring at me."

"I'll stop staring then." Mycroft was being annoyingly patient. It was usually easier to drive Mycroft away.

"Why did you come from London? It's only a broken leg. Where's my Dad?"

"Can't I care about my little brother? Dad's in Singapore, you know that."

"David's brother didn't visit him in hospital when he sick and he lived in the same town." Sherlock's gaze was challenging, as if he was daring Mycroft to tell the truth, but that couldn't be the case, there was no way Sherlock could possibly have any idea of the truth.

Mycroft smiled a tight smile, "I think you'll find not all brothers are created equal, Sherlock."

Sherlock scowled again and twisted his top half over so that he was facing the window, the heavy plaster cast tethering his leg to the bed.

"Go away, I can't think properly with you here."

This time, Mycroft acquiesced, and went to join Mummy outside the door. Sherlock couldn't help the bite of hurt that appeared when it was so easy to push him away, but turned the unpleasant emotion into a savage triumph at winning one over Mycroft.

The heavy taste of anaesthetic was finally leaving his mouth and he was beginning to think clearly again, which would normally be a good thing, except for the pain.

The next time a nurse entered the room, (a new one, good, maybe she'd think the other nurses were exaggerating), Sherlock gave her his most pitiable expression. "Please, Miss, my leg hurts so much, can you make it stop?"

She checked his chart and smiled at him, "Only a little, dear."

Morphine really was the best thing about hospital, Sherlock mused.


End file.
